


Unrequited Animosity

by orphan_account



Series: Reality On Mute [3]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ll always be haunted by the first time you found yourself alone when you woke up to quietly leave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrequited Animosity

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I don't own KHR. This is not quite TYL, more like nine years later.

You’ll always be haunted by the first time you found yourself alone when you woke up to quietly leave him. It was your intention to depart without a trace like you always did, save for a spot of fading warmth between the bed sheets and the bathroom’s fogged up glass and mirrors. But for the first time he beat you to the door. He beat you to the taxi. He beat you to the airport. And he was gone. He plunged headfirst into the depths of the world outside before you could. 

You’ll never forget waking up then sobering in a cold snap. You’ll never forget that for one horrible moment you were a lost child (but lost to who? … Some questions are better left unanswered.) A void filled the absent space beside you, a void distinctly labelled “Dino Cavallone”. You sat up instantly, your head abuzz with swarms of questions. Your eyes darted and searched the velvet darkness before you finally stilled yourself, before you evened your breath, before you slowed your frantic heart and before you realized you were completely alone. 

The digital clock on the bedside table branded “5:14 am” into the night like a cigarette. 

The next time you encounter him there was not even a word of apology, not even a single shitty excuse. It ticks you off. You soon find yourself ticked off that you’re ticked off. You still yourself like you did that night. Steel and stones snapping bones, chit chat is empty and petty, vicious cycles will never erode you. 

But deep and down, this reversal of roles bothers you. 

* * *

He thinks this is just another friendly-yet-not-so-friendly spar. However to you it’s a private execution of vengeance. You expect the mindless adrenaline to soothe you. You plan to revel in the memory of his bruised and bloody body the next time your heart betrays you. It’s worked before. It will work again. So is the inevitable fate of those you will never bring yourself to like. 

The ferocity of your blows is steadily growing at an exponential rate. You see his expression flicker and shift into something grim and troubled when he notices you’re only aiming for joints and vitals. You care but you don’t. 

This will work because you will it to. This will work simply because you want it to. Never mind the doubt that’s nibbling at the far corners of your resolve. You’ll make this (not-irrelevant, not-childish) fight satisfy your nameless hunger, you’ll make yourself cherish the (not-horrible) moment you land the finishing blow. You are going to tenderly cradle this vision of carnage in your head every night before bed. When victory comes you are going to bask in glow of triumph. Everything troubling you will be snuffed out once the source of it all is knocked out cold on the concrete. This will work because you will it to, because you want it to. It’s as simple (and uncomplicated) as that. 

His eyes sharpen and his concern grows evident when he narrowly dodges another swing that could’ve shattered his jaw. That look disgusts you. You wish- no, correction: you are going to make him stop looking at you like that because it reignites your urge to rip out your own heart and mount the shitty, incompetent thing on a wooden stake in your front yard. 

_Kyouya. Stop._

Soundlessly you lash out at him and your tonfa continue to whirl in an impenetratable weave and whistle of steel. Fuck off. 

Fuck off already. 

_Stop it, Kyouya._

The steady tone of his voice is quiet yet chiding. Something akin to shame burns the tips of your ears, he hasn’t spoken to you like that since you graduated Namimori. You care but you don’t. It’s not because you can’t… but because you shouldn’t. This unwanted awareness is yet another tick and another tock to the countdown. The countdown before something ugly and weak you’ve been struggling to cork bursts free within you and an inner hell lets itself loose into your mind and body. 

You’re dead set on your making own little explosion to wipe the both of you off the stinking face of the earth before that even comes close to happening. You’ll go down fighting tooth and nail because you won’t-you can’t envision an exit in any other way. Steel and stone snapping bones. Steel and stone snapping bones. 

_Kyouya._

Stop it.   
He’s the one who should stop it.


End file.
